


The Adventure of the Kidnapped King

by GraceHolmes, redonpointe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother Feels, Childhood Memories, Flashbacks, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt Mycroft, Hurt Sherlock, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft in trouble, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock To The Rescue, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceHolmes/pseuds/GraceHolmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redonpointe/pseuds/redonpointe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was right about one thing. There is a current King of England, except instead of a scepter he carries an umbrella. It just so happens, he's also his irritatingly overprotective elder brother. So what is he to do when roles are reversed and he's suddenly kidnapped and held for ransom? Save the King, of course. And bring his brother home. Features childhood flashback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**London - 2009**

Mycroft Holmes was not a man given to intense or prolonged bouts of fear. His work, while dangerous, was secret, and because of it, there were numerous safeguards in place to ensure both his safety and that of his family. There was also no true personal life to speak of. No partners or lovers he could inadvertently leak important information to, or who would choose to kill him in the middle of the night. No friends that would one day become too curious about what he did and seek to know more through any means, or sell what they did to the highest bidder. His parents too were mostly kept in the dark, and even his brother, whom he occasionally sought out for fieldwork, was given limited information.

When it came right down to it, Mycroft Holmes was not only the most important and dangerous man in Britain, but also the most well protected. The British Prime Minister came a close second in terms of security, followed by the Royal Family, but Mycroft was a well of sensitive knowledge and as such was at the center of a massive web of security. He had no reason to fear and even when he did, there was little use for it.

That was until South Korean elections went from two years to one year away, and he found himself waking up beneath the flickering lights of an abandoned house's basement to the sound of a woman's voice in his ear. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Holmes," she said in perfect English. "You know why we're here."

"I don't." Mycroft shook his head to clear it and lifted his eyes to scan his companions. Three in total, if he included the woman behind him. "Why should I?"

"Because you've had a look around." The woman straightened and he turned his head. "If you're as good as they say you are, you should know who we are, where we come from, and what we want by now."

Mycroft waited two beats before he replied. "I don't have it."

Female laughter erupted from behind him and he felt a hand land on his shoulder. "Come now, Mr. Holmes," she replied as if they were old friends and he was making a joke. "You don't expect us to believe you don't have that information pigeonholed in there somewhere," her hands moved to gently tap his head, "just waiting for you to reach in and grab it?"

"I assure you," Mycroft began, "I have no interest in interfering with your organization's attempts to, shall we say influence, the coming elections." He paused. "If it is information you seek, I can provide you with the number of someone with access to it. My personal assistant, the only other person besides me with access to the vault hidden away in my study. There's a flash drive."

Silence followed his declaration and he very nearly thought that perhaps they weren't convinced. Then the woman spoke again. "Phone," she ordered from behind him. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was sleeping. It wasn't particularly late in the night, but he'd just finished a week-long case with New Scotland Yard (triple homicide, earned itself a nine on his scale). So his body had needed it, and he'd crashed about four hours previous. The ringing phone woke him though, and he was coherent quickly, thinking it could be another case. Unfortunately, it wasn't Lestrade, but his brother's own personal servant, and he made a face as he answered the phone. "This better be important." He said, forgoing a greeting as he sat up in bed.

"Sherlock, we have a situation." The woman who'd chosen and kept the name Anthea, among others, spoke quickly. Her voice wasn't the usual distracted, but rather insistent. "Mycroft's been taken."

"What?" Sherlock blinked a couple times, throwing the covers off of himself. That could mean any number of things, but Anthea wouldn't have called him if it hadn't been life and death. Mycroft was in danger.

"You heard me, look, I need you to go to his estate as soon as possible. I'm sending a car. ETA five minutes."

"Fine. What happened?" Sherlock asked, putting the phone on speaker as he got out of bed and started putting clothes on. Dark jeans and a dark dress shirt instead of his usual suit. It was summer, but London in the evening still required his coat. At least that was his excuse for wanting to wear it.

Anthea spoke quickly, relaying the information. "Mr. Holmes was taken an hour ago by a small group, Koreans. We lost three people in the process. We have little knowledge about these people in general, however the woman on the phone wanted information on the South Korean elections. Information that is supposedly on a flash drive." She paused. "I spoke to him, he is alive for the moment. But they did reiterate they were planning on killing him if I did not come through with the information."

"And you need me to make the exchange?" Sherlock concluded, picking up the phone and bringing it to his ear. "It's not the real information though, that's why I'm going in to get him out."

"Yes." She replied impassively. "This information is dangerous, as well as valuable to many people, entire nations. The drive I have is a dummy drive. Falsified information, details wrong, good enough to pass initial examination. You're familiar."

"Yeah, got it." Sherlock said, grabbing his Belstaff and then heading outside, just in time to get in the car. It was empty except for the driver, who didn't say anything as they took him back off for Mycroft Holmes' estate home. He continued on the phone instead. "I assume they'll contact you again to secure the drop off location."

"Yes. They've also said that involving anyone else will result in his immediate execution. Apparently they have a source that would know and tip them off. I'll be looking into the personal files later, but for now, we have to get him out."

"How wonderful." Sherlock quipped.

"That's all I have for now, Sherlock, I'll see you shortly." The call ended and Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket. Inhaling deeply as he sorted through the facts, his mind worked quickly in an attempt to file through all the eventualities and possible outcomes. But one thing he knew for certain. He'd get his brother back whatever it took.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in his chair, but he knew that despite his aching back and sore wrists, it really couldn't have been that long. Two hours, give or take a few minutes perhaps. In the grand scheme of things, it really didn't matter. It was time he'd spent mentally working through the fallout, should he lose his life that very night.

The information at least was safe. He knew he could count on Anthea to at least ensure that. Everything else was, however, in flux. He simply wasn't sure. Who would tell his parents of his demise? Who would tell his brother? Or more importantly, who would look after him? It was odd to think that the more sentimental side of him was so thoroughly taking over his thoughts in a time that felt so close to death, but upon further consideration he decided it made perfect sense.

This was one situation he couldn't logically work himself out of, and so his mind turned to those matters he'd pushed to the shadows in favor of other things. Those matters made themselves known to him full force right then.

* * *

Anthea placed her Blackberry on top of Mycroft's desk once she'd ended the call with Sherlock and sat in one of the two chairs set up in front of it. The truly difficult part was what came next. Waiting for Mycroft's younger brother to arrive and for the kidnappers to once again make contact. Her usually busy hands fidgeted with the flash drive she'd readied for the exchange, turning it over and over while she stared at the empty leather chair behind the imposing wooden desk.

Not for the first time that night she questioned her decision to bring in the younger Holmes, but she was well past undoing what she'd done. If nothing else, she consoled herself with the idea that Sherlock would have the best and most discreet MI6 tactical team at the ready should he need it but it was still cold comfort at best. If anything happened to Sherlock, it'd be more than just her career on the line.

Her vibrating Blackberry prompted her out of her thoughts a moment later and she moved to pluck it up from the wooden surface just as the door opened behind her. "Sherlock Holmes is here," a male voice announced.

"Bring him in," Anthea replied, holding up one hand to signal silence before she pressed the mobile to her ear. "I've got what you asked for."

Sherlock walked into the room not a minute later, steel blue eyes intently focused on Anthea at the desk. His escort nodded once and then departed, closing the door on the way out.

Anthea spared him a brief glance as she put the phone on speaker and held it out so Sherlock could hear, she continued speaking. "I'm sending one man to bring the flash drive. No more, as requested, and not an intelligence agent." She said. "I'd also like another confirmation that Mycroft Holmes is alive and will remain that way."

There was some shuffling on the other side of the line, but eventually a familiar voice spoke from the other end. "Anthea," Mycroft said. "I'm alive and perfectly alright, if not exactly comfortable."

Sherlock did little more than nod, wanting to keep his involvement in this as secret as possible until he got there. Anthea caught his eye for a brief moment and then spoke again. "We'll be there soon, sir."

Mycroft's kidnappers didn't give him a chance to reply before the line disconnected and fell silent. Anthea held out the dummy flash drive to Sherlock and pocketed her phone. "You'll have a tactical team at the ready should you need it," she informed him. "Let's hope you don't."

"I won't." Sherlock said confidently, straightening to his full height as he grabbed the flash drive. "They're transmitting the location, I'm assuming?"

Anthea started for the door. "Yes, and as soon as they do I'll send it over to your mobile," she replied. "You'll take the car, but once you're there, the driver has orders to leave. Those were the terms."

"Got it. Any other terms?" Sherlock asked, following her as he turned the flash drive over in his hand. Fidgety, anticipation for what was to come.

"Come alone and unarmed," Anthea repeated the words they'd said to her before. "No vehicles of any kind except for the one they're allowing to drop you off." She pulled the door open and stepped aside. "No wires goes without saying, but they will search you upon arrival. Try not to anger the too much."

"You act as if I do that on a regular basis." Sherlock quipped, settling himself in the car after she'd opened the door for him. He sobered a moment later. "I'll endeavor to do what needs doing. This is the British Government after all."

"And also your brother," she added. "I'm sure you'll keep both things in mind while you're out there." She took a step back from the open-windowed door. "Be careful."

"Count on it." Sherlock said, turning forward and nodding to the driver. He didn't spare another glance for Anthea as the window rolled up and the car pulled away from Mycroft's driveway onto the quiet streets.


	3. Chapter 3

The text message came through five minutes later, a location halfway across London. Sherlock relayed the information quickly and then settled back into his seat. The British Government, and his brother. One in the same.

Years previous, he'd set up a deal with his brother's PA, if something like this should happen, he should be called immediately. It had taken her some convincing, heavens knows why. But Sherlock was the best, and if Mycroft was in trouble, it only made sense to send in the best. He didn't trust anyone else to this sort of operation. And rightly so. The security team was one thing, but when they failed to do their job, there'd be no trust that a strike team would get him out alive. They were doing their jobs for the government and a paycheck, Sherlock would be saving his brother.

Sherlock's hand fidgeted in place for the entirety of the drive. His driver was silent as well, which was appreciated. And eventually, they'd pulled to a stop.

"This is the place, sir." The man's voice said calmly.

"I see that." Sherlock replied, hesitating just a moment before opening the door. "I will be calling you back when we're ready. Stand by."

"As always."

Sherlock nodded and then slipped out of the car. Drawing in a deep breath, he studied the outside of the house. Abandoned, residential, but tucked away next to a factory, surrounded by trees. Out of the way and well hidden, especially in the dark. Clever. He'd have to play this just right.

Up to the front door, which wasn't illuminated by a light, he knocked the four times as instructed, waiting until it opened. He was then subjected to a pat down by a man two inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than himself. The man looked at his phone but took the flash drive, which were the only objects he'd had on his person. A rough hand pushed him through the house to a small stairway, and then down into a secluded basement.

Sherlock stumbled through the door, straightening himself up as he did. Quick blue eyes flashed over the entire scene in less than a second. _No windows, one door, large room with cement pillars. Four people including his escort, two females, two males. Korean. Extremist group, looking to secure information to help their cause and win them power in the coming elections._ _House isn't home base, brick and cement, but satellite. Women at laptop, likely will check information. Brother, middle of room, handcuffs, hungry but otherwise healthy, expression is…_ Sherlock stopped the deductions and fixed the leader with a cold stare. "Now, I believe we have a deal?"

"As soon as we confirm it's the information we seek," the woman replied with the barest hint of a smile, gesturing almost imperceptibly towards one of the men. Immediately he jumped to attention, walking over to where Sherlock stood and plucking the flash drive out of his hand. "Don't move," she added.

Mycroft fixed his eyes on his brother, but never spoke once until the man had disappeared behind him to presumably hand over the flash drive. Too many thoughts were running through his head and he didn't seem to have enough time to sort through it all, but there was one predominant feeling tainting them all. Worry. "I should've known Anthea would call you," he said with well-feigned calm.

"Was bored." Sherlock quipped, avoiding the 'brother, dear' he automatically wanted to tack on the end. He took his eyes off of Mycroft to focus in on the woman sticking the flash drive into the computer. "It's password protected, you morons. You'll release him, and I'll give you the password."

The large man from behind growled his next threat. "Or we could just beat it out of you both."

"No need," Mycroft answered the man. "Like I said before, the British Government has no reason to interfere with your operation. You'll have your password."

"We want the password first," the woman in the lead countered. "Once we verify the information, you'll get your man. _Quid pro quo_." She moved to sit at the edge of the desk and folded her arms over her chest with the confidence of someone who was used to having the upper hand. "You're really in no position to bargain here. _You_ are disposable."

"Naturally." Sherlock said dryly. Despite the incorrect information, he still had to play it as if it was real. He also _had_ to get them both out alive. And being the disposable one meant they could shoot him in the head and make Mycroft give up the password now that they had the flash drive itself. So Sherlock locked eyes with his brother and rattled off the password. "Zero-One-Zero-Six-One-Nine-Seven-Seven-W-H. No spaces or dashes, capital letters." Eyes turned back to the woman, and he put his hands in his pockets casually, as if he was chatting up an old friend. "You'll see the information is complete, as promised."

The woman sitting behind the desk quickly tapped at the keyboard and a few tense minutes later looked up to confirm with a nod of her head. "All here."

"Good," the leader said lightly, gesturing for one of the men to hand over the keys for Mycroft's restraints and hopping off the desk just as the woman behind it snapped her laptop closed and followed after. "Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Holmes," she told Mycroft upon reaching the door. "It's been a pleasure."

Both women filed out of the room followed by both men, one of which tossed the keys towards Sherlock along the way. It wasn't until they'd been left completely alone that Mycroft spoke. "Sherlock, you shouldn't have come here."

"At yet, I'm here anyways." Sherlock said, glancing once behind him as the door closed, and then moving in with the keys to the handcuffs. He moved behind his brother, crouching down to work. "Like I said earlier, was bored, your PA and I have a deal with these sorts of misadventures." The handcuffs broke apart and Sherlock pulled them away.

"Yes, and you put yourself in danger along the way," Mycroft retorted as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Now that there was no immediate danger, every compartmentalized feeling was catching up to him and fear for his brother's life was taking center stage. "I'll have to talk to Anthea."

Sherlock straightened up, pocketing both the keys and the handcuffs to be added to his collection. "You can plan the lecture you're going to give her later, let's go. I don't have service down here, and I've got to call your driver for a ride. Who knows, maybe we can swing through an all-night bakery on the way home, you look like you need it." He pulled out his phone, already searching for the contact.

Mycroft pushed himself out of the chair with a heavy sigh and took a moment to ground himself. "Very amusing, brother dear," he said dryly. "You lead and I'll follow."

Sherlock flashed a smug expression and headed for the door, completely unaware about what was about to happen.

The first explosion rocked the foundation of the house, throwing both of them off balance. With a shout of instruction, Sherlock reacted on instinct, pushing Mycroft towards the door to the stairs they likely weren't going to make. Everything was still intact at least, despite the broken nature of it, that was until a second explosion hit not ten seconds later. He hadn't anticipated that.

The stairs collapsed first, then the ceiling by the door. A wood beam right above them creaked, and he dove for his brother, pushing them both out of the way as it fell with a crack and thud. Sherlock kept a hand on Mycroft's back, trying to predict a way out of this.

But he was coming up blank. There was nothing he could do, no way out. Best he could do was find the safest corner. Thinking fast, he pushed them both away from the collapsing stairs and towards the nearest wall.

The third and final explosion did it, coming from somewhere above them. Not enough to engulf them in flames, but enough to destroy their surroundings as the old house collapsed on top of them. One arm wrapped around his brother, the other curled over his head, something fell from above and knocked them both off their feet. The next thing Sherlock felt was a stab through his side, a jolt of pain somewhere at the back of his head, and then the darkness took him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wales - 3 June 1984**

Sherlock Holmes was quite sure he would have been just fine on his own. He was seven years old, after all. He didn't need an escort anymore, he was practically grown up now. But no, Mummy had instructed Mycroft accompany him while he went exploring the hills and rocks and streams this afternoon.

Their summer holiday home was in the country near Stackpole, Wales. Quite far away from their actual home. But the young boy loved it, plenty of room to collect bugs to study, or find rock samples, or dissect the occasional bird or squirrels that had accidentally found it's way into the teeth of his best friend, and not have to be near any infernal and idiotic school children.

Redbeard was there, as he'd always been for the last five years. The Irish Setter bound around them happily as they walked, running off to chase and bark at the birds, but coming back quickly. All pink tongue and wagging tale. Sherlock loved that dog, his only friend.

When Mummy had encouraged him to accept his brother's presence, Sherlock had put on a show earlier that day, little crossed arms and too big pirate hat over top of piercing clear blue eyes and curly black hair. But it didn't help, bossy Mycroft was still there, following along. So Sherlock was currently ignoring him, running ahead along the top of a hill, chasing his dog. "Redbeard!" He called in his little voice.

Fourteen year old Mycroft Holmes heaved a long suffering sigh and quickened his footsteps when he heard his brother call out to the Irish Setter sprinting ahead of them. He loathed these countryside holidays about as much as he loathed walking, and he detested walking quite a bit. It was exhausting and dangerous, what with twisted tree roots rising intermittently out of the grown and beds of leaves hiding all sorts of hazardous possibilities beneath their surface.

If left up to him, he would've stayed indoors with a book in his hand and a cup of tea on the table beside him. As it was, he was huffing and puffing his way behind his brother along a small crop of trees he'd decided to explore that day. The lively child had a bad habit of getting caught up inside his head at the most inopportune times, and even if his parents hadn't entrusted him with his care while out of doors, he would've followed him out regardless to make sure he didn't wind up hurt in some distant corner no one could get to. Or worse.

"Sherly!" He called when his brother ran too far ahead for comfort. "I told you to stay close!"

"What for?" Sherlock turned around with a bounce, expression set stubbornly. Redbeard barked and came running back, bounding around him again, and Sherlock started walking backwards to keep sharp eyes on his much taller older brother. "Come on, My! You're so slow!"

"I'm not slow, you're just fast!" Mycroft argued. "And even you can figure out why you should be staying close by," he added. "Mum told you as much, didn't she? You'll get hurt."

"Will not." Sherlock argued back. "How is walking next to you any different? You're too slow to be of any help under the slim chance I do get hurt. I can figure that out just fine on my own." Arms crossed again. "I won't tell Mummy, I promise. You're dismissed." He added, attempting the air of authority he'd witnessed from his brother himself.

Mycroft aimed a condescending look at his brother and scoffed. "I said I'm not slow! You're just determined to run off ahead," he argued. "And if I leave and you wind up too hurt to return home on your own, no one will be able to find you. That is why I'm here." Finally catching up, he stretched to his full height and towered over his brother. "Stop arguing, Sherly."

Sherlock glared up at Mycroft, still waiting for the day he'd be taller than him. Because he would be. And definitely not as pudgy. "Redbeard would help. He's faster than you. Even walking."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother. "Yes and I'm sure he'd relay the details of your location in perfect detail, as you'd expect from any mongrel," he retorted. "I'm here and I'm staying, little brother. Now run along to do what you do. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can go home."

"He's not a mongrel!" Sherlock argued, pouting a lip and then simply turning away. He took off at a run, his faithful friend along his side, his hand keeping his pirate hat from flying away.

"Bugger," Mycroft whispered under his breath the minute his brother took off, awkwardly quickening his pace to follow after him.

Sherlock had made it quite a distance before he slowed, peeking over the top of the hill to the forested stream. He glanced back, hiding a small smirk, and then ran down the hill and out of Mycroft's sight. If My wouldn't leave, he'd just lose him. Sherlock was fast, and he disappeared into the wooded area as he followed Redbeard.

Normally, Sherlock was very good about not getting hurt when he ventured out. But this area of land was new to him, and while he was intent to explore, he missed the loose dirt on the top of a small cliff. Redbeard was off ahead, and Sherlock slowed to a stop. However, not a moment later, he was falling. And with a short yelp, tumbled down the ravine and landed hard.

The forest floor was treacherous territory, but right then Mycroft was more preoccupied with catching up with his brother more than anything else. All sorts of things could happen, and his mind, quick and sharp even at his age, saw every scenario with glaring clarity. Sherlock could fall and hurt himself. Get lost within the maze of trees without being able to find his way back. Or worse, stubbornly refuse to go back with him until he caught his death out there.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called out after a bit of panic-induced thinking. "Come back here right now! I'll tell mummy if you don't!"

Sherlock landed on his arm, his wrist had tweaked slightly as he'd fallen. He wasn't sure if it was sprained or broken, but it hurt. A lot. Even now he was curled up in the old leaves and grass, holding it close to him. Redbeard was still up the top the cliff, running back and forth, barking. In between the barks he heard his brother's voice, and was a horrible mix of embarrassed and hurting. He sniffled to himself, and then cried out as loud as he could. "MY!"

Mycroft stopped running and rested his hands against his knees. "Sherly?" He called between breaths, trying to ascertain his brother's location. He wouldn't have answered if he wasn't in trouble. Faintly he heard Redbeard's barks and he lifted his head to look around. "Sherly! Keep talking, I'll find you."

Sherlock glanced over to the spot several yards away where his pirate hat had fallen, then back up the ravine. He couldn't climb it himself, and he hurt too much to move right then. Most logical decision was to call for Mycroft again, despite his apprehension. So, like his brother had taught him, while nervous or overstimulated, he started reciting various things he'd learned. Today was the digits of pi, or as much as he could remember, and as loud as he could. "Pi is 3.141592653589…"

It was inevitable that Mycroft would smile upon hearing his brother's voice again, but it was short-lived. He still had to find him. Several deep breaths later, he was running again towards the sound of his brother's voice and his dog's now occasional barking. He was paying as much attention to possible to obstacles he might trip over on the floor, but the majority of his attention was on his brother's voice and the direction he needed to run to next.

Eventually, he felt it was closer and quickened his pace. Feet pounded the leave-strewn ground while his breath came in quick pants. And then he was falling, sharp cry torn from his throat as pain erupted from his ankle and he rolled down the same ravine his brother had fallen victim to only minutes before. "Bloody hell, that hurts!"

"My!" Sherlock cried, ignoring his own soreness and scooting over to where his brother had fallen. "My! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, you weren't supposed to fall." He sniffed hard, reaching to touch his brother's shoulder. His dirty face apologetic and embarrassed, clear blue eyes threatening to cry.

A look at Sherlock's face was all it took and even in his pained state, he simply couldn't let his little brother worry over him when it should be the other way around. He was the eldest, and as such he had a responsibility. He had to be the strong one.

"It's fine," Mycroft told his brother quickly, sitting up and dusting himself off. "I'm fine, Sherly. Don't worry. We'll climb back out and go home." Bracing himself against the ground, he tried to stand and found himself sucking in a breath between his teeth as a fresh wave of pain attacked his ankle. "Maybe... after we wait for a bit." He breathed in and out a few times. "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock sniffed again, scooting in until he was tucked next to his brother, pirate hat ignored for the moment. "I… I think I hurt my wrist. Don't know if I broke it. But it hurts… loads."

Mycroft suppressed a grimace and shifted so he could put an arm around his brother while he surveyed his arm. "We need to go back," he told him after a moment. "I don't think I can walk just yet, but as soon as I can we'll leave for home straightaway." He met his brother's eyes in the most reassuring way possible to keep him from being scared. He never did like it when his little brother was scared. "We'll be alright," he insisted. "I'll make sure of it."

"It's my fault." Sherlock said, watery eyes staring up at his brother and snuggling closer, mindful of the injuries. "I wasn't careful. My, I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he said quietly, reaching over with his other hand to run it through Sherlock's unruly curls. "It's a dangerous place. It could've happened to either of us," he assured him gently. "How bad is the pain?"

"Prob-probably like your ankle." Sherlock said, closing his eyes. He didn't see Redbeard anymore, and that worried him too. "Do…do you think you can make it back?"

Mycroft bent his leg at the knee and put just a little bit of pressure on it. Immediately his face twisted into a grimace, but the pain wasn't as bad as it had been in the beginning. "I think so," he said after a bit. "I may need a bit of help, though. Was it just your wrist that got hurt?"

Sherlock was quite for a moment, sniffing again. His pride. He supposed that had been hurt too, but that didn't matter. "Yeah." He mumbled, looking away. "I can help you."

"Alright," Mycroft sighed, releasing his hold on his brother and running a hand through his hair. If it'd just been Sherlock who'd been hurt, things would've been easier. It would've been slow going, but he would've been able to carry him. As it was, Mycroft would be even slower now than he'd been before. They'd reach their house by nightfall, and they really weren't dressed for the cold. One problem at a time. "Help me up. We'll see how bad this is first," he said out loud.

Sherlock took one more moment tucked next to Mycroft, and then pulled himself away. He was too short and small to really help his much taller (and rounder) brother, but he'd try. Slipping a bit in the leaves, he eventually stood up, holding his broken wrist close to his body, and offering his right hand to Mycroft. "How're we going to get back?"

"We'll walk," Mycroft replied, taking his brother's small hand mostly for leverage than any real help in standing up. He saved that for his own hand and leg pushing up from the ground. It was a struggle, but after a bit he managed to get himself standing on his one good leg. "Mummy and dad don't know where we are for certain, and..." He took a quick look around. "Neither do we, for that matter. I have an idea on where we came from, though."

A distant bark came before Sherlock had a chance to reply, and Redbeard ran towards them at the bottom of the ravine. Sherlock kept a hold of Mycroft's hand, watching as he stood and then looking over to where the dog was running from. "That way?" He asked, looking back up at Mycroft, an apologetic expression on his face.

"That way," Mycroft confirmed, begrudgingly admitting to himself that the mongrel - dog - had its uses. "Come on," he told his brother as he began moving to climb back up the ravine. He picked up his pirate's hat along the way and plopped it down on top of Sherlock's head. "Don't want to wind up in Davy Jones' locker, now do we?"

Sherlock couldn't help the grin that turned his mouth, despite the circumstance and the pain, and smiled up at his brother. "No, that's a horrid place." He said practically. "Don't want to end up there. It's worse than sprained ankles."

Mycroft concealed a smile upon noticing Sherlock's grin. "A lot worse," he agreed. "Luckily we've got you and we've got Redbeard. It shouldn't be that much of a challenge to find our way home, and if it is and we're caught out here in the dark, we can always use the stars as a guide. The way real pirates do."

"I want to be a real pirate when I grow up." Sherlock said with a serious nod, not that he hadn't said that before, but it bared repeating. "And if they have to amputate my broken wrist, I'll just have a hook. I'll be fine. Like a real pirate. And you can have a peg leg."

A chuckle erupted from Mycroft's mouth, in spite of the pain he was in. "A hook for a hand and a peg leg," he mused. "I can't say I'm looking forward to that." He glanced at Sherlock again. "We have to get through mummy first, though."

"Our worst nightmare." Sherlock said, his eyes bugging out as he spoke dramatically, attempting to lower his young voice. "We can take her. I hide stuff from her all the time."

"We can't hide a hurt wrist," Mycroft told him. "Even if we could, we really shouldn't. You need to get that looked at by someone who knows, Sherly." He reached over to place a hand on top of Sherlock's pirate hat and smiled. "Look at the bright side. At least we don't have to face her alone."

"Like a doctor?" Sherlock asked. "We both need a doctor. Then we can be pirates. I should just hire a pirate doctor, then we'd be fine." He kept with the joking fantasy, seemed to keep his mind off of the situation at hand. Redbeard walked along next to him, not dashing about as was usual.

Mycroft listened to his little brother talk, happy to have succeeded in getting him to think of something other than what was at hand. Sherlock's wrist for one thing, and Mycroft's ankle for the other. He was in considerable pain and the sky was darkening overhead, but what lay ahead of them was worse. He knew their parents wouldn't take their injuries lightly, and it had been his responsibility to make certain neither one of them got hurt. There'd be a scolding, he was sure.

He didn't mind, though. Because as it only rarely happened with his little brother, he wasn't fighting Mycroft but rather animatedly talking to him about something he enjoyed. Years later, that would be even more of a rarity. But right then Mycroft could only listen and chime in when necessary, while wonderfully oblivious about the way things could change.


	5. Chapter 5

**London - 2009**

Decades of scores and resentments later, Mycroft opened his eyes to nothing but pitch black and blinding pain emanating from his entire body all at once. After his eyes adjusted and his breathing slowed to a somewhat reasonable rate, he found that it really wasn't all that dark and that the pain, while intense, was not coming from his entire body but from a few key places instead. It wasn't much in terms of consolation, but it was a start. Orienting himself was the first step after all.

Minutes passing brought with them flashes of memory and quick bursts of recognition. He was slumped against what he could only conclude was a wall, but he couldn't make out much in the darkness beyond the shapes and shadows that seemed to fill his hazy vision. His right leg hurt in a way that felt more like burning than anything else, but he knew that wasn't the case. His chest felt tight, his throat hurt, his head felt heavy, and every time he tried to move it, he was rewarded with fresh sparks of blinding pain.

"Sherly?" His voice came weak and raspy and his throat felt raw enough to make him wince, but he tried again. "Sherlock…"

Fortunately, Sherlock wasn't too far away. He was lying a few feet away covered in dust and debris, and currently not moving. The blast had taken out most of the room. However, they'd found themselves tucked next to the only wall still standing and under a large piece of the ceiling in a sort of small pocket of protection. If one could call it that.

Whether it was the ragged voice or the pain itself, Sherlock stirred, groaning as he shifted and a piece of wood fell off of him to the side. There was a sharp pain over his side, and arm, and his head felt like it was about to explode. He'd redo the assessment later, for the moment, he had to identify the voice. Oh, Mycroft. House. Explosion. Buried. Alive. "Mm." He tried again after a while, not even opening his eyes right then. "My…?"

"Here." Mycroft's answer was followed by a quick cough that doubled him over with pain. "I'm here... Sherly." He blinked his eyes a few more times until they finally caught a bit of movement in the darkness. With a great deal of effort he pushed himself away from the wall to move forward, only to topple over to his side. He caught himself with his elbow and hissed. "How bad?"

Sherlock coughed himself, turning on his side and another piece of plaster fell off of his body and onto the floor. Pain through his skull pulled another groan from him. Blood dripped from a crack in his forehead down his nose and face. "Bad." He managed with a huff. "But still….here." He gasped, trying to scoot himself closer to Mycroft and out from under the pile of wood.

Mycroft placed his other hand flat on the debris that littered floor to hold himself up. "We need... to get out..." He rasped, already considering the possibility that the small pocket they seemed to be trapped in might collapse at any moment. As if to prove his point, small pieces of the cracking wall fell on his shoulder and scattered to the ground. It was only then he felt the wound to his shoulder and the blood seeping out and plastering his clothes to his skin. "Call someone."

Sherlock ducked his head as the pieces of the cracking wall fell, lifting himself again with his right hand after. His left arm was shooting jolts of pain every time he moved, broken likely, and rendering it useless at present time. His thoughts drifted to the phone that had been in his hand ready to call the driver. "Phone's gone," pause "They'll… find us. Tac team…was ready." He sucked in a breath, assessing the pain that came along with it. "Just have to…hold on."

Mycroft breathed out slowly and tried to focus his thoughts on something other than the pain. "You wouldn't... have to, if... you hadn't come here yourself."

Sherlock shifted on more time, until he was close enough to Mycroft to settle. "Balance of probability…suggests you'd be dead….if it was someone else."

"It was still too much of a risk for you... to come here," Mycroft insisted while very carefully sitting back up when he heard more than saw Sherlock move. "Now we might both be dead."

"Have faith, brother mine." Sherlock said more than snarked, his voice was heavy and he let out another dusty cough, which sparked intense pain through his abdomen. Another movement pushed himself up until he was sort of tucked in next to Mycroft and the wall. "Risking my life to ease….the boredom isn't new."

"Except this time I wouldn't be there to pull you back from the edge if you found yourself too close and about to tip over," Mycroft retorted, following the statement with a series of coughs before he sagged against the wall and his brother. "This reminds me of something."

"What?" Sherlock asked, both leaning on Mycroft and supporting him, holding his broken arm close to his bruised ribs. "Can't say we've ever been in this position before."

"Not exactly the same... no," Mycroft agreed with something between a cough and a laugh. "It reminds me of that time we both fell down a ravine when we were younger," he explained. "Do you remember or did you delete that?"

Sherlock was quiet for a bit, dredging up the memory as one among many childhood adventures. Never deleted, simply stored. "As I recall… that time I was the one running off alone and you came to the rescue."

"Quite right," Mycroft said quietly, doing much the same with his own memories and closing his eyes. "It was never meant to be the other way around."

"You were…bound to get in trouble eventually." Sherlock replied.

Mycroft wasn't sure how he could explain the feeling of responsibility he felt for his brother's safety, and how the very idea of putting him in danger to save his own life felt wrong. It was sentiment, and not something either of them were used to. "I'd hoped that if it ever happened... you wouldn't be the one to deal with it."

"Why wouldn't I be the one?" Sherlock asked quietly, closing his eyes as his free hand felt over his blood covered abdomen. "You think I'd trust one of your trained monkeys not to screw this up"

"Because it is my job to protect you," Mycroft insisted in what was now a very raspy voice. He pushed through the pain in his throat to speak. "Not the other way around. Those trained monkeys are disposable, you are not."

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, tucking his head on Mycroft's shoulder as they held each other upright. In the darkness Mycroft couldn't see, but Sherlock had taken a serious wound in his abdomen, and he felt the blood dripping down over his legs and arm. When he spoke, his voice came out soft, but also childlike, reminiscent of decades previous. "I couldn't…. lose you…My." He said. "Anthea and I…had a deal."

"I can only imagine what sort of deal," Mycroft replied, still oblivious to his brother's wound. "I can't have you in danger, Sherly," he told him in a quieter tone. "I can't lose you either."

"Then it looks like we're both…getting out of here then." Sherlock said. "Just have to wait…they'll come."

Mycroft grabbed for Sherlock's hand in the darkness, almost expecting to find his hand tiny like when they were children. There were no pirate stories to distract him this time and for a fleeting moment he felt almost sad. "If mummy were to hear about this she'd be very disappointed," he commented. "On the bright side, we're not fighting."

Sherlock gripped Mycroft's hand tightly, holding on to him as a lifeline. His other hand was holding his abdomen over the wound, as much as he could with it being broken. He huffed softly in amusement. "Don't have the strength to fight right now… brother dear." Deep breath. "I won't tell her if you won't."

Mycroft made a sound that might've been a laugh if he wasn't in so much pain. "We have a deal," he said quietly, gripping Sherlock's hand a little tighter.

Silence fell again, and Sherlock was getting dizzier than he probably should. "Why the bomb?" He asked softly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, working through his concussed brain to search for the answers. "Why not …just shoot us and be done with it?"

Mycroft wasn't sure he could properly work through the problem right then fuzzy and in pain as his head was, but one idea came to mind. "To send a message, perhaps," he theorized.

"That's rubbish…if…if they know what's good for them…they'll be out of the country by now." Sherlock slurred. "They didn't think we'd…survive."

"The message wasn't for us, brother dear," Mycroft replied, lifting his head and tilting it to try and catch a glimpse of his brother in the darkness. "It was for everyone else. _We_ or rather _I_ was the message."

"Still…no message sent. I s-saved you." Sherlock slurred again, relaxing further against his brother. "The King of England lives..."

The heavy weight of his brother set slowly against him and Mycroft's brow furrowed with worry that had been building since he'd begun slurring his words. "Sherly," he said as firmly as he could.

"I'm…cold, My." Sherlock replied softly. "Bleeding. Sorry."

Mycroft wasn't a man who cursed often, but right then he cursed under his breath and moved so he could wrap an arm around his brother. "Where, Sherly?"

"Side…here." Sherlock said, using his now freed hand to press into the wound, and he let out a groan of pain. "Prob'ly have to tell mummy now…" He let his head fall, resting on Mycroft's. "S-sorry. Mm fine. I'll hold on."

Immediately Mycroft reached out in the darkness and searched for the wound, heedless of the pain coming from his shoulder. Questions came quick, one after the other. What sort of wound? How much blood had he lost? How much longer until the tac team got to their location? Would he make it? His fingers finally touched on something warm and slippery and he settled his hand on top of Sherlock's to add pressure. "Don't move," he ordered. "I'm sure we're close to getting out."

Sherlock let out another groan as the pressure increased on the wound, pain radiating through his torso. He was sure the piece of splintered wood that had impaled him was laughing right now, but that could just be his fuzzy brain. "You're so bossy." He said with a bit more strength this time. "Even now."

"Now more than ever," Mycroft retorted, helplessly looking around at their veiled surroundings for something—anything—that would help. "Stop snarking."

"Shhh." Sherlock shushed him, opening his eyes in the darkness, listening for sounds that their rescue was on their way. Eventually he spoke again, slurring his words. "Good thing…I left my pirate hat at home. Would have gotten lost…here."

Under any other circumstances Mycroft might've laughed, but as it was all he could bring himself to do was grimace. "Stop talking, Sherly," he ordered quietly.

"Bossy…and worried." Sherlock said, closing his eyes again. Not that it mattered, it was still dark, but his lids were so heavy. "I c-can tell. You know…you're…my brother, and it's supposed to be that way. Ap-apparently."

Mycroft heaved a large sigh, wondering not for the first time where the tac team was and why it hadn't yet arrived. Sherlock was minutes, perhaps seconds, away from losing consciousness, and he was helpless to do much but sit there and listen to him slip away. He cursed under his breath again. "Yes, that's how it's supposed to be, Sherly," he answered as calmly as he could. "Now be quiet. We'll be out of here soon."

"Don't wanna be quiet." Sherlock said softly, almost pleading. "Things to…say." And so, he took another deep breath, pressing against the hands that were trying to hold his wound closed. "I'mmm sorry…for not keeping up, being slow. S-sorry for the…drugs. And the…snarking."

"There will be plenty of time to talk..." Mycroft began to say, but his brother's words silenced him. If he didn't know better, he would've wagered Sherlock was saying goodbye just in case and it made him inexplicably angry. "Sherly, why are you apologizing now?"

"Obvious…brother dear." Sherlock said. He was fading faster than he initially thought he would. Maybe if he had taken care of his transport during his last case, he would have made it longer. But that was a miscalculation he wasn't sure he'd have time to rethink. He was so tired, unconsciousness pulling at him, and he relaxed into Mycroft's embrace again. "Mm sleep now."

"No," Mycroft said, a little louder than he'd initially expected. "You need to stay awake," he insisted. "Just don't talk."

"How…how will you know…mmawake if…no talkin'?" Sherlock mumbled, with something between an amused huff and a pained moan.

Leave it to Sherlock to want the last word even when the possibility of dying was so close at hand. "I'll never find out if you don't shut up," Mycroft sassed. "Please," he added in a quieter tone.

Sherlock's lips twitched into the faintest of smirks, and he turned his head to look at his brother in the darkness, just barely making out his features. They were close, closer than they'd been in years, actually touching each other even if they had little choice. Maybe Mycroft was picturing him as a child in a pirate hat again, not the adult bleeding out under a collapsed house. That thought wasn't all that horrible, Sherlock decided, for he felt very childlike and didn't have anyone else at that moment in time. No one, but the brother that had always been there, even when he protested. The brother he promised he'd hold on for, but he could already feel himself slipping despite his best efforts. He drew in another ragged breath, even as he heard the faint sounds of people moving somewhere above them. The rescue team.

"Hold on, My. I'll be fine." Sherlock whispered. "Mm sorry…senti…ment. Hold…on…" Sherlock's head dropped and the hand pressing against his own wound relaxed as he slipped towards a blood loss induced unconsciousness. Hoping and praying to a God he didn't believe in that Mycroft would make it out, he said one more word and then was gone. "My…"

The sounds of boots stomping on the floor above them nearly drowned out Sherlock's whispered words, but Mycroft caught them and he shifted to pull his brother into his arms. There was little else he could do for him and he felt so helpless. The British Government—the King of England, as his brother had jokingly called him—and he couldn't do a bloody thing to save his brother. In one fell swoop he'd gone from the most powerful man in England to a complete nobody in the face of his brother's jarringly imminent death.

"We're here!" He called out in a raspy voice when the sound of shuffling feet and grunts drew nearer. Silence followed his declaration, followed by unintelligible chatter and even more shuffling feet. He couldn't find the strength to call again, preoccupied as he was with keeping pressure on his brother's wound as best he could with slippery hands.

Time passed so slowly it felt almost like an eternity and a half before the debris ensconcing them in their little pocket inside the house was moved out of the way to make room for the rescue team. Orders were shouted back and forth and both Mycroft and Sherlock were lifted off the ground and hustled outside where a medical team already waited at the ready. Later Mycroft would only be able to recall a blur of movement, too bright lights, hands stained blood red, and feeling like a rug had been pulled from under his feet. "Sherly..." He called in a winded voice when they were separated. "Sherlock!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Wales - 13 June 1984**

Sherlock had a cast on his left arm. And he really didn't like it. The little fall down the ravine had left him with a fracture through his radius bone. The cast had been there ten whole days and itched like mad. It was summer, and it impeded his bug collections and bird dissections, as well as the swimming in the pond. But at least Redbeard didn't mind.

It was early evening, after family dinner, and he was playing with Redbeard in the living room of their summer home. The Irish setter was pulling on one end of the rope toy, while Sherlock held onto the other with his good hand. Young giggles and the soft playful growl of the dog sounded in the room. "That's a good boy!…get it!"

Mycroft sat on a couch in the living room with his foot up while he watched his little brother and his dog. His book lay abandoned on his lap and his tea had grown cold on the table beside him, but there was a small smile on his face. "Careful, Sherly."

Sherlock paused, looking up from the ground at Mycroft with big silver-blue eyes. "What for?" He asked childishly.

"In case you hurt your arm any more than it already is," Mycroft explained. "Redbeard doesn't know enough to be careful, so you have to be."

At that moment in time, Redbeard gave a sharp pull and Sherlock lost a hold of the rope. He made a face at Mycroft for the distraction from that battle. The dog dropped the toy and bounded in circles around him, tail wagging and tongue out. Sherlock reached to ruffle his ears and replied dramatically. "Don't need to be careful, it's already broken and casted, can't get much worse."

"Then if you're not afraid of the pain that will inevitably come with another fall, by all means keep at it," Mycroft retorted with a light sniff.

"Can't fall again, I'm already on the ground." Sherlock sassed, his serious expression melting as Redbeard moved in to lick his face and he laughed. "Fine, My. I'll be careful." A second passed and Redbeard trotted away, leaving Sherlock alone on the carpet. Clear blue eyes fixed on Mycroft and he bounced one of his legs. "Whatcha reading?"

Mycroft turned the book over on his lap and lifted it to show him the cover. "The Hobbit," he answered. "Borrowed it from mummy." He dropped it back to his lap. "Why? Want me to read to you?"

"I'll read it when you're done, I'm seven and a half, I _can_ read." Sherlock said indignantly, but stood himself up off the ground and moved towards the couch. Crawling in next to his brother, he let out a dramatic sigh. "But I wouldn't mind if you wanted to."

Mycroft concealed a small smile and picked up the book. "I'll start from the beginning," he announced quietly, thumbing through the pages before reaching the first and smoothing it out. He cleared his throat as if he were all grown-up and began to read. " _In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort..._ "

If anyone asked him, Mycroft would never admit he enjoyed the book. It was a fantastical story filled with scenarios more suited to his little brother's adventurous mind than his own. If he'd been the main character of the story, he was sure the whole affair would've ended very abruptly after perhaps one very short chapter. Such was his nature, even at his young age.

Secretly, however, he did enjoy the book. He enjoyed it for all the reasons most people would think he wouldn't. He enjoyed the fantastical and the adventurous and the risky and that he could experience it all from the comfort of his chair. It was an echo, perhaps, of the man he'd become. While Sherlock would grow into a man comparable to a dragon slayer in his adulthood, Mycroft would grow into one who would watch from the shadows and be satisfied with a less public but altogether important role. Not everyone was meant for the spotlight.

As he neared the end of a page, his brother's small weight pressed against his side and he stopped reading. "Sherly?" He asked quietly, and upon receiving no reply, tilted his head to get a better look. Sound asleep. He closed the book with a small smile.


	7. Chapter 7

_"Sherly…Sherlock!"_

Sherlock Holmes was floating. Somewhere in between life and death. Somewhere in a strange reality of long dead pets, pirate hats, and childhood memories.

He wouldn't remember the rescue, being lifted out of the nearly destroyed building, the trip in the ambulance side by side with his brother. He wouldn't remember the medics shouting orders, or the shocks that had restarted his heart. He wouldn't remember being wheeled into emergency surgery to close up the wound inflicted by a piece of splintered wood, nor the ten units of B positive blood they used during the process. He wouldn't remember the rest of the night, nor the morning after.

Eventually, he awoke from the floating. The first time, there were several long blinks in the dim light and that was it. He slipped back into the sleep his broken transport needed. The second time, the soft beeps and footsteps met his ears, pulling him out of the dreams and into reality. He let out a groan, turning his head on the hospital pillow and blinking the room into focus.

Mycroft's head snapped Sherlock's way the minute he heard. His injuries hadn't been nearly as bad as his brother's, but they might as well have been. He would've traded places with him in a heartbeat if it would've guaranteed his wellbeing, but that was illogical to think about and he knew it. Bargaining. A side effect of feeling helpless, nothing more.

Still, the relief had been immediate when he was given news of his brother's likely recovery, but it wasn't until he _heard_ his brother, that he allowed himself to give into just a fraction to that relief. "Sherly?"

Sherlock closed his eyes again, nearly slipping back to sleep, but he'd been sleeping far too long, it was time to wake up. Silver blue eyes opened again and focused in on the hospital gown clade figure of his brother in the next bed over. "My?" He rasped.

"Here," Mycroft replied, and it was more a sigh than anything else. "I'm here and I'm almost awake. How do you feel?"

"Thirsty." Sherlock said quietly, turning his head back to stare at the ceiling. Fingers that wouldn't work quite right yet felt the bandage on his side, and then the cast that encased his left arm. He let out something between a groan and an amused huff. "That...went well."

Mycroft let out a weak laugh in spite of himself. "That is one way of looking at it," he sighed. "You almost died."

"Didn't though…that's good." Sherlock said weakly.

"Not this time," Mycroft retorted quickly. "You can't do it again. Deal or no deal with Anthea, I won't have it."

"And what would you do about it?" Sherlock replied. "You'd likely be dead without me. A 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

"A thank you for putting yourself in danger to save me?" Mycroft scoffed. "You shouldn't have." He paused and spared a brief glance for his brother and sighed heavily. "I _am_ grateful... I'm just worried."

"Obviously. You'll get over it." Sherlock rasped again, mustering as much dryness as he could. "Should have given me the lecture while I was sleeping, this is boring."

"But effective," Mycroft replied. "You can't expect me not to have an opinion when you do something as reckless as what you did today."

"Reckless as save your life and protect information. Sure. I'll remember that for next time you get kidnapped by an extremist group intent on making you into a message." Sherlock retorted.

"Do remember it," Mycroft replied in a faintly shaking voice. "Perhaps it'll ensure you don't lose your life along the way."

Sherlock opened his eyes again and turned his head towards Mycroft, fixing him with a confused expression at the tone. "Wh-…I'm... I'm not going to. I could die on a case just as easily as coming to your rescue. What are you going to do? Lock me up somewhere?"

"I've considered the option," Mycroft retorted. "Unfortunately some things even _I_ can't get away with. Mummy would be incredibly disappointed."

"Terribly ambitious of you, I'm not even sure you could lock me up if you thought you could get away with it." Sherlock replied tiredly, relaxing back on his pillow but keeping his eyes on his brother.

"Doesn't mean I couldn't try," Mycroft replied, all the fight slowly seeping out of him. "I'm not sure what I'd do if I lost you, Sherly."

Sherlock was quiet a long moment, watching the emotion play out in his brother's tone and posture. It was enlightening, reminiscent of years past. Before the drugs, before the major tension, before they'd been separated by circumstance. He wanted to say that Mycroft should just move on if the worst should happen, stay true to Queen and Country and the security of the British nation. But he didn't. Instead... "Should have had Anthea bring you _The Hobbit_ , then we wouldn't have to discuss this."

Mycroft let out a surprised laugh. "I thought you'd deleted that," he confessed. "We can still call her if you're feeling nostalgic."

"Nope. Just feeling thirsty." Sherlock said, deciding to make a grab for the hospital issued water bottle with a straw. He let out a soft groan with the effort, but succeeded. He flopped back down on the bed and took a long drink. "I don't delete everything. I still remember your stupid pony."

"My stupid pony was smarter than your stupid dog," Mycroft retorted, more to annoy his brother than anything else.

Sherlock huffed in amusement, letting out a little cough for his troubles. "My stupid dog was very smart and helpful, if you can be bothered to remember. Or did you delete that too?"

"No," Mycroft admitted, allowing his thoughts drift back to that particular memory once again. "Very helpful indeed, otherwise I'm sure we would've been wandering through those woods for ages before we found our way."

"Wandering would have been very painful I'm sure, on your injured something... can't remember if it was ankle or knee." Sherlock said, sleepily. "We get each other out of trouble it seems."

"Ankle," Mycroft recalled, relaxing against his own pillows and staring up at the ceiling. "And yes... apparently we do." He turned his head to look at Sherlock. "Tired already?"

"I did almost die, I have a right to be tired." Sherlock retorted, closing his eyes. "Who's stupid idea was the double room anyways, one can't sleep properly with your lectures."

"My idea," Mycroft retorted. "I wanted to be there when you woke up but they wouldn't let me out of bed. Pulling strings only goes so far..." He closed his eyes with a short sigh. "This was the best I could do."

Sherlock breathed in and out deeply. "Of course you did." He paused, smiling just barely to himself. "And I did too, did the best I could. Now shut up, I'm going back to sleep."

Mycroft laughed weakly. "Sleep then, Sherly..." He replied. "I'll be here."


End file.
